In my salad days, I would ride my bike to the Friendly’s in Sixteen Acres and get a chocolate malt with the money I earned doing chores that my older brothers were too smart to pick. (Five bucks for three hours of lawn work seemed like a good deal at ten years old.) The taste has magical powers. It made me feel, for five minutes, like there was nothing wrong in the world. That “malt” aspect made the shake so much better and was the best part for me. I assumed the malts being referred to were chocolate-covered maltballs being chopped up. While times have certainly changed, the process of malting both my drinks of childhood and adulthood has stayed the same.